


A Blast From The Past

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Written for the Sentinel Thursday prompt “OMC/OFC”. Originally posted on October 27, 2007 at Sentinel Thursday.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	A Blast From The Past

The flea market was a huge open-air event in a field on the outskirts of a small town up in the foothills. It attracted scads of people due to its central locale among the summer vacation towns that littered the Cascades.

Jim’d made his customary token fuss about coming along, but the truth was he didn’t trust Blair’s sense of direction, even though it was only a half hour drive more or less in a straight-arrow line east of Cascade, he trusted the Volvo’s reliability to negotiate the back road terrain even less, and…this was the part he’d never willingly admit to Blair…he just plain got a kick out of seeing Blair in his element. Because watching Blair work his way through the diverse crowds of people that showed up at flea markets was something to behold.

Blair always managed to find a treasure or two…an old book or magazine, an odd trinket or necklace, an unusual weaving.

“One man’s junk, man,” he’d say with a chuckle in response to Jim’s eye rolling as he’d scavenge the tables and bins, haggling over prices.

And with each bargain struck he’d also collect a bit of its recent owner’s history, or a tale of its relevance to the culture from which it was derived, and usually a new friend.

They criss-crossed the field over the course of the morning in a grid pattern Jim’d ordained in order to efficiently cover the most ground in the least amount of time. They’d just about made it through section C-7 and were ready to head for a nearby concession stand in order to appease another of Jim’s hidden reasons for being persuaded to come along…flea markets always seemed to have the best chili dogs…when a voice called out.

“Hey! Tadpole! That you?”

Recognizing the distinctive gravelly voice instantly, Blair spun around and scanned the area.

A short, scraggly-looking leftover from the sixties elbowed his way through a small knot of people in front of a nearby set of tables and made a beeline for Blair.

A huge shit-eating grin spread across Blair’s face. “Froggy!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around the guy.

Jim sighed, shook his head, and gave the old hippie a quick once over…and then another with his senses, wrinkling his nose at a scent he picked up. Then he did a double take for good measure. Long, graying frizzy hair held back by a worn leather headband, round wire-rimmed glasses, a scruffy beard, tattered jeans, a multi-colored vest festooned with peace symbols, and ratty sandals on his feet. Except for the blue eyes, the guy could’ve been Tommy Chong’s double.

Blair pulled out of the hug and the two men held each other at arms’ length. “What’re you doin’ down from the hills?” Blair asked, jerking his chin toward the mountains behind them.

Froggy’s head tilted to the left a little. “Sunbeam wanted to come down. Said the stars were aligned fortuitously for a little day trippin’. She’s got some dried flowers, some beads ‘n shit to barter, dig?”

Blair glanced over Froggy’s left shoulder. Jim’s eyes were already riveted to a beat up old VW bus plastered with peace symbols and faded artwork, which was parked off to the side of the small sale area from which Froggy had emerged. A woman roughly the same age as Froggy, and dressed similarly, smiled warmly and waved.

Blair returned the wave. “Yeah, I dig, that’s cool, man,” Blair answered, nodding his head along with Froggy’s, which seemed to be in perpetual motion.

Jim shifted his stance and cleared his throat.

“Oh, hey, sorry, man,” Blair apologized quickly. “Jim, this is Froggy. Froggy, Jim.”

The two men sized each other up before hesitantly shaking hands.

“Tadpole?” Jim asked, his eyes alight with amusement and blackmail possibilities.

“It’s a nickname, Jim, from when I was about eight, and I’d---,” Blair started.

“Yeah, I get it,” Jim cut in, waggling his head, as he looked first at Froggy, then at Blair. “Frog, Tadpole, I get it.”

Froggy stared at Jim for a moment and then his face lit up. “Oh, hey, yeah. Frog, Tadpole, that’d work too. But that’s not it, man,” he countered. “It’s ‘cuz he had this massive head of curls, man, that stuck out all over the place, and made his head look too big for the rest of him, see? And he had a scrawny little bod, and toothpick legs, and he always had to be in the middle of whatever was goin’ on, man, so he’d do this squiggly thing so he could wiggle his way in, that made him look like, um,” Froggy slowed and shrugged, looking for just the right way to say what he meant, “you know, like a spe---, uh, a swimmer, man, dig? Only Magenta Mama wouldn’t let me call him---,”

‘Magenta Mama?’ Jim mouthed at Blair. He was trying his darndest not to laugh.

‘Naomi’ Blair mouthed back, as he pointed at his head, indicating the reference was to his mom’s red hair. He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out.

Jim nodded smugly, filing that tidbit away along with Tadpole, and the story behind the moniker. Teasing ammunition galore…this was turning out to be a great day.

Froggy seemed oblivious to the silent exchange, and rambled on for a few more seconds before running out of steam at about the same time Jim’s stomach rumbled.

Jim patted his midsection apologetically and glanced toward the food stand longingly. “I really need to grab a bite,” he said.

“Hungry, oh, hey, I hear that,” Froggy said, then snorted, pointing at Jim’s belly. “I hear that, get it?”

“Right,” Jim agreed dryly.

Blair laughed and slapped Jim’s upper arm. “He’s been salivating over sinking his teeth into a chili dog all morning.”

“Whoa, that stuff’ll kill ya, man,” Froggy said seriously as he tugged on Blair’s sleeve. “Come on and join us, we’ve got more ‘n enough to share. All organic,” he pitched.

“I’ll take my chances,” Jim dodged quickly, fending off the image of a chili dog smothered in onions slipping out of his grasp. “You go on, Chief, I’ll catch up with you in a while.”

After eating, Jim decided to give Blair some time to reminisce, and spent a while nosing around a few other vendors’ stalls. He returned about an hour later to find Froggy’s tables unmanned, with a cash tray set out in the open next to a hand printed sign instructing any potential customers to pay by way of the honor system. He picked up the sound of Blair’s voice and followed it to a shaded spot a few hundred feet behind the van, where he found the three sitting cross-legged on the ground laughing and talking, the remnants of a picnic lunch scattered around them.

Blair hopped up when Jim approached, beaming enthusiastically, motioning for Jim to join them.

“Hey, man, you’re just in time, I’ve got some primo weed,” Froggy said, waving his hand at Jim, beckoning him closer.

Blair’s eyes bugged out and he slammed a hand against Jim’s chest peremptorily.

“Froggy,” he hissed, as he tried to suppress a grin. He felt Jim lurch forward, so he applied additional pressure to Jim’s chest.

“Don’t worry, man, I can smell the fuzz a mile away,” Froggy placated with a disarming grin. Sunbeam leaned into his side and threaded her arms around his waist. They both looked up at Jim and Blair, the picture of serene hippies.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to---,” Jim began stonily; ignoring Blair as he reached for his back pocket, ready to extract his badge.

Blair planted both hands on Jim’s chest, and sputtered with laughter. “Jim, man, he’s yankin’ your chain. I told him all about my ride along.”

Jim rolled his eyes, gave Blair an exasperated look that stated he was not amused, and then grumbled a half-hearted threat to emphasize his lack of amusement.

Blair doubled up with laughter. “You should see your face Jim!” he hooted.

“Laugh it up, Junior,” Jim retorted as he shoved Blair off.

“Sorry, man,” Froggy apologized as he sprang to his feet, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “just can’t resist hasslin’ the pigs.”

Jim relented, a bit grudgingly at first, and then gave up the stern act altogether when Sunbeam intervened, smiling shyly and shooing Froggy and Blair off to say their good-byes.

“Blair’s very special to Froggy,” Sunbeam remarked quietly. She cocked her head appraisingly at Jim. “As he is to you.” She took one of Jim’s hands and slid a beaded bracelet onto his wrist. Then she slid her arm into the crook of his elbow and walked with him to where Froggy and Blair were waiting.

“Have a nice visit?” Jim asked as they walked away, heading toward the parking area.

“Oh, yeah, man, it was great,” Blair replied.

“So,” Jim ventured, “is he a daddy candidate?”

Blair’s face screwed comically in disbelief, and he answered somewhat defensively, “Froggy? No way, man.”

Jim let it drop, but considered running the van’s plates when they returned to Cascade. He changed his mind on the ride back when Blair decided, out of the blue, to elaborate.

“Froggy served in Vietnam,” he said as he stared straight ahead. “In ’67. He was wounded. He,” Blair inhaled deeply and blinked a few times. “He---. It was pretty bad. He wasn’t able to have kids.”

Jim didn’t need to be a genius to do the math. “I’m sorry, Chief,” he said simply. “Seeing the two of you together, and something Sunbeam said, I just thought, maybe, you know?” He shrugged apologetically.

“I saved his life,” Blair whispered in a shaky voice. “That summer when I was eight. That’s what he told me when I got older. He’d had a hard time pulling his life back together and had decided to end it. He was gonna---.”

Blair rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes, and then dragged them down across his cheeks. And then he chuckled nervously.

“But I latched onto him that summer and we had the best time together. And he said later that I gave him a reason for stickin’ around.”

Mindful of the road, Jim gave Blair a sidelong glance, and a knowing smile.

“Geez, I guess I’ve always been a pushy little shit, huh?” Blair surmised, returning the smile and chuckling. And this time his laughter was heartfelt.

“You’re not going to get an argument from me, Chief,” Jim wisecracked just quickly enough to earn himself a hearty swat on the arm.

‘And thank God you are,’ he added silently.


End file.
